


gentle reminder

by KleoHoney



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 18+, Breaking and Entering, Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Dark fic, F/M, Intruding, Stalking, Swearing, Tags to be added, The Winter Solider - Freeform, Very Creepy, dub-con, obsessed!Bucky, unstable!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KleoHoney/pseuds/KleoHoney
Summary: Your calendar is crammed full of dates and appointments. None of them are in your handwriting.
Relationships: Bucky Barnes/Reader, Dark!Bucky Barnes/Reader
Comments: 83
Kudos: 298





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a DARK fic! Please read the warnings before you proceed! New ones will be put in the notes at the beginning of each part so be sure to read them ;)

For something that would eventually escalate into a life-changing event, it started off small. A circled date, coffee in the machine, an appointment scrawled onto a post-it note. 

You’d started getting to places on time, meeting deadlines, waking up earlier. Living alone was tough, but you were getting better at it. The calendar was a colourful array of dates and colour-coded meetings and it was unbelievably helpful and you wondered why you hadn’t done it months before. 

Maybe that was why it took you so long to realise the handwriting wasn’t yours. 

📞

The first time you’d noticed is an early morning in early November. 

The alarm went off and you crawled from the warm comfort of your sheets, slapping blindly for the ‘off’ button. Even after it was off, the shrill tone of it still rang in your head. 

Coffee. It was a must. You went into the bathroom, fetched your dressing gown and wrapped it around yourself. You headed straight for the kitchen and picked up your mug from the side, nearly burning your fingers on the sides.

With a hiss, you brought it to your lips and blew slightly, breathing in the familiar scent of your favourite brand. Sipping lightly, you furrow your brows. There’s a tense moment and then you laugh.

“I’m taking time off,” you say to yourself. “I must be tired if I can’t even remember making my own coffee.”

Then you look at the calendar and the number written on today’s date. Next to it was a label - call Devin at 9. You swore. It was nearly eight thirty; you’d almost forgotten. 

📞

The second time was a week later, when you were reading from a post-it note about the details Anna requested for her living room. Being an interior designer was incredible work, but you didn’t have the memory for it. 

You transferred the details into a document you shared with Anna, one that enabled her to also edit if she changed her mind on anything. You do a double take when you reach the word ‘cream’. The letters were all joined. Cursive, but almost too messy to be called that.

The last time you’d written in cursive had been in high school. 

You sat back a little, picking up the note and examining it. None of the writing looked like yours, actually. 

The thought didn’t linger for long. You were tired - had been tired for almost a month straight. Messy handwriting was hardly a crime and it wasn’t as if yours was neat.

With a shrug, you’d stuffed the note into a draw in your desk and promptly forgot about it. 

📞

You weren’t scared until the third time. 

It was mid November and the evening was closing in. You’d shut the curtains a while ago, instead choosing to illuminate your work space with a variety of lamps your family had given you when you’d first moved. 

Tilting your head to the side, you cracked your neck and sat back. Sitting in an office chair all day wasn’t good for the soul or the back. Unnatural light was meant to be bad long term, too.

Looking up, you frowned. There was a little lamp on the corner of your desk, the smallest but brightest of the lot. You remembered that one specifically because it had been one your mother had given you. 

And also because you’d broken it last week.

You leaned forward and picked it up, examining it carefully. You fought with yourself to stay calm, to think rationally. And there, at the base of the lamp, was a scratch in the paint from where you’d caught your nail on it. 

You turned it off and stared intently at the bulb. It had broken, shattered all over the floor when you’d clumsily knocked it off your desk. You were sure it had. You’d even cried a little; it was a gift from your mother and to say you missed her was an understatement. 

Goosebumps raised along your arms and you put it down with enough force to shake the table. Rubbed your eyes until your vision was blurry before you sat down. There was no way you’d brought a new light bulb because the one it required was a funny shape. You’d tried to replace it before and had given in after a month and sent for a replacement from your mother. 

Glancing at the calendar, you gnawed at your bottom lip. There it was again. That messy cursive. You stood up and took the calendar from the wall, flipping through the last few months. 

It was blank until August. Then it was crammed with dates and numbers and notes, all in that same handwriting. 

Grabbing a pen from your draw, you opened your notebook and chose a random date. You copied down what was written in your loopiest, most careless handwriting. Then another, and another, and another until your hand was numb and shaking.

Because no matter how many loops you put, no matter which way you leaned, no matter how much pressure you put on the pen, that handwriting was not yours. 

Bewildered, you sat back in your chair and let the pen later to your desk. There was a beat of silence and then you were leaning over to switch the little lamp back on. There were four on in total, but you were no longer focused on the light. You could only see the darkness lingering just outside of it. 

📞

Despite your unease, you didn’t do anything. Not really. There was no real proof, only your own suspicions. 

And what could you say? Someone was sneaking into your house to make you coffee and write down all your appointments? An unwanted assistant. The police would laugh you out of the station. 

So, you started writing the dates down yourself. Any numbers, any dates, you’d scribble them down on the calendar the moment you got them. You threw out all your coffee and drank only water and juice. You got all the locks changed and kept only one key. Getting locked out was preferable to someone else getting in.

And it works. For a while, at least. But then you began to forget things again, likely due to your shitty sleep schedule, and when you wake up one morning it’s exactly as it was before.

But not quite.

There was a post it note on the kitchen counter. _‘Call Darren at 10:30’_ it said. And there, in the bottom right corner, ‘ _please don’t be scared’._

You brought the bulk of your dressing gown to your mouth and scream. It was muffled and didn’t have the desired affect. Calming down seemed impossible and you felt unbelievably foolish. As if a changed lock would have stopped whatever this was. 

You spent an hour just standing in the kitchen, heart threatening to beat out of your chest. You could barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in your ears and your own fear whispering. Your legs were shaking violently but locked stiff. Moving seemed like a challenge.

Someone slammed a car door outside and you nearly jumped out of your own skin. It propelled you into moving and, suddenly, staying in the house was the last thing you wanted to do. 

So, you slid the note into a little zip-lock baggie and headed straight for the police station.

📞

They didn’t laugh. Not outright, anyway. The receptionist took your little bag and gave it a once-over before placing it on her desk. There was no doubt in your mind that the minute you left it would be swept into the bin.

“Right,” you stammered, very aware of the fact you were still in your dressing gown. “Um, thank you.”

You walked out without waiting for a reply. It felt too much like a walk of shame, the plastic bottom of your slippers squeaking on the tile. Your blood was boiling with embarrassment but was cooling quickly. You’d hoped they might have at least sent someone to check the the house, even if they didn’t believe you.

Not for the first time, you wondered why you’d been given the house in the will and why you’d accepted. You’d always thought renting was your future, not owning your own home. It tied you down and brought too many complications. You’d had to move away from your friends, too. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and it had eventually felt like home.

But now all you could think about was the way the stairs creaked and how sometimes possums and mice got into the attic and scampered around above your head. Or the way the pipes leaked and made that awful groaning noise whenever your neighbours showered. 

What if it wasn’t the pipes?

You shook the thought off. You had enough to scare you without your own thoughts joining in. Twisting the key in the ignition, you pulled out of the carpark and scowled at the police station in your rearview mirror. 

The note was probably in the bin by now. Maybe it was best if you didn’t have a calendar at all. There was a digital one on your laptop; that would do. 

Your lip twitched. That was not the problem. The problem was the person breaking into your house. Repeatedly. 

Instead of going home, you drove to the nearest tech store. The note might not prove much, but video evidence from a camera would.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : 18+, dark fic, future dub-con smut, stalking, intruding, watching while sleeping, unstable!Bucky Barnes

A mere two hours after you’d gone home, you had the cameras up and running. One in the kitchen, one in the office and one in your bedroom just to be safe. They streamed directly to your phone; like a ring door bell but inside. 

Part of you was reluctant to set them up. After all, who knew what they would show you. 

Another part didn’t expect to see anything. The cameras weren’t small; the person breaking in would see them easily. They might end up as more of a deterrent than anything. 

You operated smoothly, holding the instruction booklet in one hand and the cables in another. Any other day and you might’ve called someone in to professionally install them but you didn’t have the patience. Not for this. 

They would function as eyes in the back of your head. Turning your back seemed like a death sentence since you’d realise what was going on and it had made you cranky and anxious. The cameras would ensure you never had to. 

You sat back and admired your work, checking the connection between them and your phone. It was all running smoothly. 

Now it was time to put them to work.

📞

You worked well into the evening, eyes darting between your computer and your phone. You’d plugged it in an hour ago. All the usage was rapidly driving the battery down but you didn’t want to miss a thing. The intruder had never operated during the day (as far as you could tell) but night was creeping in and - well, they might be too. 

Tapping restlessly at the keyboard, your eyes darted out into the corridor. You’d turned on all the lights half an hour ago but they no longer chased away the darkness like they used to. A shiver crawled down your spine. Every creak of the house made you near-sick with fear. Even with the cameras, sleep would not come easy tonight. 

Adding some last-minute changes to the document, you finally saved it and shut the computer down. It was pointless to work when you couldn’t focus your full attention to it. Maybe it was best to take a break until the situation was resolved. 

Situation. You laughed dryly and pressed the balls of your hands into your eyes. Was that what this was? Everything felt too calm, too still. It always had and that’s why it took you so long to notice it. 

It was a faux silence. Not one born out of peace, but one born from need. The need to cover up secrets, hide the truth. Yes, it was quiet - too quiet.

Abruptly you stood up, grabbing shakily for the phone on your desk. 

“Please,” you whispered, “please, please, please.”

You had no idea what you were pleading for. Maybe a sign that you weren’t crazy, maybe nothing at all. But there it was; movement from the camera in the kitchen. 

The calendar was swaying from its position on the wall. On the counter you could see a pen, uncapped. And the window was cracked, which might’ve been fine if you weren’t positively sure you’d shut it tight earlier. 

There was an odd dance. You swayed on the balls of your feet, torn between scrambling beneath your desk and charging out to assess the situation.

In the end, pride won out. This was your house. Your calendar, your pens, your job. Nobody had the right to take that away from you, no matter what their intentions. 

Your heartbeat sounded too loud in your ears. In your hands was a stapler, one of the long ones, clutched so tight that your fingers hurt. The house teased you, creaking and adjusting itself as if it was alive. Maybe it was. You’d been alone before and now you weren’t. Everything seemed more alive now.

When you walked into the kitchen, a scream caught in your throat. A breath of wind squeeze through the cracked window and rustle the calendar, drawing attention to it. As if you would have missed it. 

The dates were no longer readable. You could just make out the crosses you’d done on days that had gone by but that was it. The entire thing was covered in frantic, messy writing. Two words. 

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

_“Then stay out!”_ You cried, dropping your phone to the floor. “Leave me alone. I don’t _want_ this!”

The words rang in the air. Unheard. Ignored. Whichever. It didn’t matter. 

It wasn’t quiet anymore.

📞

Later, once you’d disposed of the calendar (burned it in the sink), you had the sense of mind to check the camera feed. A sense of smugness filled you but it was dulled. Everything was dulled now. Only fear was sharp, and every time you moved, it cut a little deeper into your skin.

The smugness died quickly. You watched the feed once, twice, thrice. There was nothing. It took you a while to figure out how to slow it down but once you had, it was easy to spot. There was a flash of black, less than a second long. 

They’d taken out the camera.

Shaken, you sat back in your bed. Your skin felt dry, like a stretched elastic band, from copious tears. Still, more threatened to roll down your face. 

What the hell were you dealing with? You’d hoped for a homeless person, prepared yourself for a stalker at the worst. None of those imaginings had prepared you for this. 

Someone who had the ability to break into your home without leaving a mark other than what they wanted you to see. Someone who could take out quality cameras in less than a minute. Someone who apologised for what they were doing but made no attempt to spot.

“God, oh God,” you moaned. “What did I do to deserve this? I - I can’t do this.”

A bitter laugh escaped you as the smell of smoke wafted through your room. You’d burned the calendar, which had apparently been your only form of tangible evidence. Not that the police would care, given the reaction to your note. 

To beat this, you’d need to be at your best. Eat good food, get some sleep, stay on track. Maybe look at some nearby apartments. You couldn’t let it break you even though you could already feel the cracks forming. 

This kind of terror had never seemed real to you. It made you feel sick. It made you feel like you wanted to run and never stop running until you fell off the ends of the earth. Someone had been in your safe place and now it wasn’t safe anymore. 

You’d heard of fight-or-flight response before. Maybe you’d fancied yourself a bit of a fighter, but not anymore. The muscles in your thighs jumped periodically, your brain urging you to get up and go. Just leave. Because it wasn’t your house anymore. 

It felt like your house. Smelled like your house. In reality, you were more felt like a rabbit sharing a den with a fox. It was obvious who it really belonged to. 

Sleep never came. Even as your back began to throb, protesting against the solid wood of your headboard, you didn’t move. Your fingers got cold but you made no attempt to crawl beneath your sheets. No comfort would be found there. Your eyes burned and your vision went blurry but still, you didn’t look away from the door way. 

You couldn’t. Not even for a second, because apparently that was all it took. 

📞

Eventually, sleep grasped you and dragged you down into its depths. It was pointless because when you woke, you felt more fatigued than before. It was a bone-deep tiredness. You’d have to turn yourself inside out to be rid of it.

You’d had a dream. Of course you had. Though nightmare would probably be a more apt description. 

You had seen yourself in bed, asleep. All tucked in with the covers resting just below your chin. You’d been smiling slightly. Then the door had opened, and darkness in the form of a man had walked in. Strutted in, as if he owned the place. As if he owned you.

You weren’t sure when you’d given the figure a gender. Maybe it was the arrogant way he held himself or the way he leaned down a little too closely, peered at you a little too intimately. It was a man. You were sure of it. 

He hadn’t done anything. The corner of the bed had dipped down as he sat and watched. And that was all he did - watch. Observe. Sometimes he looked at the door, as if he expected someone else to storm in. 

It reminded you of the way your childhood dog had always slept at the bottom of your bed. Diego had woken you numerous times, barking the house down if your mother dared to come in and check on you. You’d loved Diego, his presence had been a welcome one. The stranger, though, not so much. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t bite. 

Every bone in your body protested as you forced yourself to sit up. You felt dry, like all the moisture and energy had been sucked from your body. Your eyes throbbed and it took several long blinks for your vision to clear.

Automatically, your eyes strayed to the corner of the bed. Your stranger’s perch. All the blood in your veins cooled as you took in straight sheets. They were tucked perfectly under the mattress, not a speck of dirt out of place. The sheets were rumpled around your body, evidence of your fitful sleep.

You leaned forward, placed a shaky hand on the triangle of duvet at the corner of the bed. 

There was horror, but not surprise, when you realised it was warm to the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please beware of the warnings before you proceed! None have been added yet but this is a dark fic.

And so it continued. 

You installed a lock on your bedroom door immediately after that. But to your horror, your’d wake every morning and find a patch of your bedding warm to the touch. The lock was never broken and you never stirred. 

What was the point? Out of all your questions, that was the one that stood out. They weren’t harming you, nor had they caused any real disruption (other than that of your sleeping pattern). It scared you, yes, but you got the sense that that wasn’t quite the point, either. 

The cameras came up blank every time. You stopped checking them after three days. A pointless waste of money. 

It took you a lot of courage to try the police again, but you did. You wrote down everything you could remember and bought with you a copy of the tape with the glitches on.

There was no real disappointment when they turned you away. It had been a last ditch effort, anyway. Hope was draining away, giving way to the darkness slinking in. 

You threw the tape in your backseat, scoffing. They’d even threatened to charge you for wasting police time. Your fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel. 

What else could you do? It felt as if you’d explored every avenue with no result. You’d sank further into exhaustion, the feeling of safety long gone. 

Reversing from the parking space, you pulled away from the station. You’d never go back there again.

📞

Naps were the only thing that got you through the day anymore. So, when you were awoke midday, you were not happy.

You snatched your phone from the table. Wrong one. Slowly, your eyes strayed to the landline. It was something the old owner’s had had and you’d never bothered to get removed. It was rarely used and, when it was, it was mostly telemarketers. 

Your bare feet padded on the floor as you swayed across the room. Fatigue clung onto your eyelids and threatened to drag them down. Scrubbing furiously at them, you tried to focus.

The smooth plastic of the phone was cold beneath your hand. “Hello?”

You waited a few seconds, tapping your toes on the ground. “Hello? If you’re selling something I -“

“I’m not,” a voice interrupted. “I - just don’t hang up yet.”

Your feet abruptly stilled. The voice was not a familiar one. Gravelly, as if from misuse, and. . .and you wanted to say dangerous, but it sounded silly when you tested it out on your tongue.

“Who is this?” You tried again, hand already pulling the phone away from your face. 

“You don’t know me,” they said quickly, “not yet. But - but I know you.”

Distantly, alarm bells began to ring. The receiver grew slick with sweat in your hand. “Who is this? Tell me or I’m hanging up.”

“Please,” a panicked moan punctuated the word. “I just want to speak with you. Wanted you to speak to me.”

“I’m speaking,” your voice was steady, to your surprise. “Who is this?”

“Okay, alright,” they choked out. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I didn’t mean to scare you. 

The words rang in your mind, fastening you to the spot as you stared dimly out of the window.

Please don’t be scared. 

Your next words were not planned, but they tumbled out all the same. “You’ve been coming into my home, haven’t you?”

“I-“

“Haven’t you?”

There was a pause, and you could hear the caller gulping. It angered you. How dare they be nervous, as if you were the one to be scared of? They had been coming into your house, touching your things and intruding on your life. 

It had been nearly three weeks. Three weeks since you’d noticed, that is. What would have happened if you hadn’t? Would you have just caused through life, drinking coffee that you hadn’t made and following plans that you hadn’t written?

“I can’t stop.”

You blinked as the line went dead. There was an urge to scream, an urge to rip the holder from the wall and smash it into tiny bits on the floor. Maybe the fucker would come by and sweep it up for you. 

The words left a bad taste in your mouth. Maybe it had been foolish to hope for some kind of apology, a confirmation that it would all stop and you could finally sleep and work as normal. Instead, you’d gotten the opposite. 

An obvious and clear message that it wouldn’t. And you didn’t even know why.

📞

The next day, no work was done. All you could think about was the call and what you should’ve done differently. Pleading might’ve been a good idea. Crying, and all that. The caller hadn’t sounded cruel. Their voice had reeked uncertainty (over their own actions?). And maybe that was worse. 

Someone who was angry could calm down. Someone who was unstable. . .what happened to them? 

Forcing yourself to your desk, you caught up with all your work. It was tireless work and you wished you’d never let it accumulate. Having some sense of normalcy when everything else had been turned on its head would be good for you, though near impossible to manage. 

You worked until the sun began to set. Then you couldn’t, because every few seconds you were glancing up and peering around. Your Fitbit beeped, sensing your steadily rocketing pulse. 

You tried having the door shut, but that only made it worse. Convinced you head footsteps outside or saw a shadow dart beneath the crack, you had to have it open. You wanted to at least see what was coming. 

Shutting down your computer, you pushed all your folders into their selective draws and then stood up, stretching with your hands over your head. Every muscle in your body was coiled tightly. Fight or flight, your mind whispered. 

“Flight,” you said out loud. 

You crept down the corridor and headed to your room. Creeping around in your own house felt ridiculous but you heard more if you did. It would make it easy to pick out someone else’s footsteps from your own. 

The thought chilled you and you tugged at the cardigan around your shoulders. Somewhere warm might be nice. It had been cold lately. So, so cold. 

Methodically, you began packing your suitcase. A week ago you’d dragged it down from the top of your wardrobe and it had sat beneath the bed ever since, almost burning a hole in the mattress. Begging to be used.

“My pleasure,” you said, shoving your toiletries into a smaller bag to jam in.

You put it on the floor and did a double take. Both the wheels were missing and they most definitely hadn’t been when you’d brought it down. One of them had caught your elbow and you’d had to put a plaster on it.

Your lips thinned. “You think that will stop me?”

It wouldn’t. You pulled the zip and put your padlock onto it, securing it in place. The small clicks and whizz as you spun the numbers around was beyond satisfying. It felt like something to look forward to. 

You dragged it next to the bed and stood back, hands on hips. A wild giggle rose in your throat and you pressed a hand to it, wanting to keep it. Happiness had eluded you since the first day. It was coming back, in like scraps and shreds. You’d take anything you could get.

It felt as if you were a kid before a big school trip. Your shower was a quick one and you got dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. You’d wear them for bed and wherever you went tomorrow. You didn’t want to spend a minute longer in the house than necessary, but driving while tired was a death sentence.

So is staying in the house.

You pushed the thought away. Paranoia gnawed at the peripheries of your mind and you spent half an hour staring at the ceiling before steeling your resolve and forcing yourself to sleep.

There was no drifting into sleep. That implied a sense of ease. The drop into sleep was a hard one, born out of necessity. That was how most things were for you now. No joy, only a strict schedule that had to be followed because you were scared of what would happen if you didn’t.

📞

The next morning, you found out the consequences of daring to be happy.

Clothes were strewn around the room, cosmetics emptied all over the floor. The wardrobe doors were hanging off of their hinges and the mirror was smashed to bits. The dresser was upturned, it’s draws scattered across the room as if they weighed nothing. 

Feathers dusted the room, mainly focused on the bed and you. Every pillow , apart from the two you slept, on had been torn to bits. The mattress had been shredded, and you spied your suitcase, ripped clean in half.

There was a foot of space around you that had been saved from destruction. Your duvet was clean, looked as if it had been tucked tightly around you whilst you slept. There wasn’t a single hair on your head out of place.

You were already finding it hard to breathe, and then the air was robbed from your lungs.

Someone was sitting outside of your room.

Shadows made it hard to see. A quick glance at your bedside clock confirmed it was the early hours of the morning. Still, you could make out the outline of someone slumped on the floor, back turned to the room like a child put in time out. 

“Oh, God,” you moaned, dragging the covers up to your chin. “Oh, God. Please, no.”

“I’m sorry,” they whispered, turning slightly. You saw dark hair covering an undoubtedly male face, the stubborn jut of a cleft chin. “I’m sorry, baby doll. I didn’t mean to.”

Then you saw the glint of metal, and you screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr! My user is **kleohoneyao3**


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter does contain dub/non-con and coercion.**

There was a dull thud as you shot up the bed, hitting your head on the headboard in the process. The sheets were in disarray, and you knew instantly that he’d been closer. 

You barely registered the sound of metal on wood as he scrambled across the floor, shooting up onto the bed faster than you could process it. You’d expected a man; an ordinary man. It was clear he was something else.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, the taste of your own fear potent on your tongue. The past few weeks had left you wondering why. Now you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

You struck out, fist catching a stubbled chin. It barely fazed him. His pupils were dilated, his breath coming out in harsh pants that dusted across your wet cheeks. Dimly, you realised you were crying.

“Shh, pretty girl,” he hummed, still and quiet. “Don’t want to see you cry.”

Black. He was wearing all black, and you knew it wasn’t true. If he didn’t want to see you cry, then why had he come here? Why had he tormented you for weeks, only to reveal himself at the last possible moment. 

There was a throbbing in your head as you pressed yourself back, as if you were trying to melt into the headboard. Your teeth were clenched tightly, and you felt every beat of your heart as if you were holding it in your hands.

“Leave,” you managed, hands shaking. “I want you to go.”

“I only wanted to help,” he whispered, glove-covered hand reaching out to touch your face. His mouth twisted into something ugly when you recoiled. “I haven’t touched you. I’ve been waiting, being good.”

“Then why are you here?” You murmured, eyes fixated on the metal of his other hand.

A humourless laugh. “Maybe I’m tired of being good.”

You yelped as you were yanked forward by your top, forced into a hard kiss that lacked intimacy. It tasted of dominance, of desperation. The kind of taste that you’d never get out.

You struggled, but it was useless. It wouldn’t end until he wanted it to. Control was slipping through your fingers - no, that wasn’t right. Control had slipped away the moment he’d first come into your house without you knowing and began to orchestrate your life.

Eventually he broke away, pressing a hand to his lips. As if he was a school girl who’d just been kissed for the first time. 

“I did it,” he muttered, gazing at you with something like wonder. “I kissed you. It felt good.”

A shudder wracked through you. It had been building and building for weeks, and now it was finally coming down around you and you could hardly believe it. Didn’t want to.

“I waited,” he laughed again, “that’s all I’ve been doing. Waiting for instructions, waiting for my memories to come back.”

He squinted at you, tilting his head. “You have terrible memory.”

“That’s no excuse for what you did,” you amended, “for what you’re doing.”

“Memories are so important,” he continued as if you hadn’t spoken. “That’s why I wanted you to have yours.”

There was something you were missing. A vital part of the story that would make everything make sense. Maybe you’d have been curious about it once, but not when he was sitting on your bed, head tilted and looking as if he’d reach forward and -

His hand shot out and you screamed, yanking your leg bag hard enough to cause a jolt of pain. “Don’t you fucking touch me. Get out, now!”

“Can’t,” he moaned. “I can’t, I can’t. I’ve tried.”

You leaned down, attempting to pry his fingers from your ankle. “Try-harder.”

“I have,” he said, almost greedily leering at the contrast of your skin against his. “But I don’t want to anymore. I don’t have to do things I don’t want to now.”  
Reaching over, your fingers scrabbled across your bedside table until they found purchase on your lamp. You yanked it hard, feeling the plug come out of the socket, and bought it down on the man’s head.

He swore, and it didn’t seem to hurt him very much, but it startled him enough to let go of your ankle. You grabbed the opportunity like you’d never grabbed anything in your life before, shooting off of the bed so quick that your head spun.

“Wait!” He cried, and you heard the thump of his footsteps. “Please, don’t leave!”

There was a vulnerability in his tone, one that mimicked the way you felt. A wild laugh slipped from your lips as you tore the bedroom door back open and shot into the corridor. The darkness greeted you, and you slipped into it gratefully.

Horror overwhelmed you as you tried the backdoor and found it locked. Your eyes searched wildly for the keys but came up blank - they were gone.

He appeared in the doorway and you screamed again, putting the table between the two of you. Stupid - so stupid. You’d cornered yourself and he had the keys to your freedom. Had had them for weeks, now, it felt like.

“What - what do you want,” you said weakly. You were fumbling for a distraction, for something to tilt the odds in your favour. 

There was a pregnant pause. And then, “I wanted to help. I’ve done a lot of things, and I only wanted to help. I did help. I made sure you got to your meetings, made sure you finished all your work on time.”

“Then go,” you said, “go now. You’ve helped, it’s over.”

“I thought that at first,” he admitted. He shifted on his feet and you heard the jangle of keys in his pocket. “Then I realised that I’d chosen you for a reason. I like you. So much that it hurts.”

“This isn’t the way,” you hissed.  
“It’s my way.”

He stepped forward and you yelped, holding out your hand as if it would ward him off. “Wait - I - what’s your name?”

“Bucky,” he said dreamily, still continuing forward. “I already know yours. See?”

He took off his glove, revealing your name scrawled down hundreds of times. Pulled up his sleeve and there was even more. He stroked his metal fingers over the marks. “I didn’t want to forget.”

Your chest was heaving. Nothing could have prepared you for this. You wished it had been simple, a normal break in. You’d take stolen stuff over this anyway. 

“Can I touch you?” He asked, curiously. There it was again - the tilted head, like a puppy.  
“No, no,” you rushed to say. “You can’t. Bucky, get away from me.”

“I’ll make it good,” he promised. “I - I remember somethings. I know how to eat you out-“

You turned to run, but his hand was fisting in your top ad then he was yanking you to the floor. A strangled cry left you as your knees met the cold tile, then your front as you were pulled to the floor. 

Your cheek was pressed against the tile, and you were almost glad for the relief. Your entire body was hot, full of molten liquid, and Bucky was dipping his hands in. He couldn’t be reasoned with. There was something missing in him, and you didn’t want to know what he taken it’s place.

He settled above you, hips pressing into your ass. He thrust lazily against your ass, a shaky sign ghosting past his lips. You struck out blindly, elbow catching his arm. It hurt you more than it hurt him, you could tell.

Bucky swore as your struggles started afresh. “No, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you are!” You cried, tears trickling into your mouth, dampening the floor beneath you. 

Above all, humiliation stood proud. The crotch of your shorts clung to your pussy, damp with arousal. Something about Bucky was bringing out a side of you that you didn’t want to know about. 

“Just - if you let me make love to you, I’ll leave.”

Instantly, your struggles stopped. A pathetic sniffle left you as you shifted slightly. “You’ll leave?”

“I will,” he said, though he sounded hurt. “I just want to feel you.”  
Bucky didn’t wait for an answer. Those shallow thrusts started up again, and you felt the hard length of him grinding into your ass. Dimly, you registered the shape of the keys in his pocket. It would be so easy to reach back and grab them.

As if he’d read your mind, he reached forward and secured both your wrists with one hand. Squeezed a little. A warning. 

Was it really that simple? Let him take you, and it would all stop. He’d leave and you could lock the door behind him, make sure he was gone. And if you didn’t? He hadn’t told you what would happen if he didn’t, but you weren’t going to ask. Not when you were so afraid of the answer.

Fingers wormed their way beneath the band of your shorts, tugging them off in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your core and you gassed the temperature change jarring. There was no ignoring what was going to happen.

Another hand pressed itself beneath your hips, urging you to push them up. You did so, albeit reluctantly. You could feel the air on your damp folds. There was no hiding it.

“Oh, God,” Bucky groaned. You felt him lean back, as if to get a better look. “I want so much. I want to do everything. I - I don’t know what to do.”

You didn’t reply, because the words weren’t for you. Your nipples grazed the floor and you shuddered. Perhaps giving in wouldn’t be so awful. It could be bearable.

A finger swiped through your folds and you squeaked, holding. Bucky was quick to sooth you. “Shhh, didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t like the cold? I don’t like it either.”

And then it wasn’t cold anymore, because Bucky was shoving his face into the space between your thighs and licking your pussy from the back. Your hips stuttered but he kept you still with the hand beneath your mound, keeping you pressed up to his mouth.

There was no way to describe it. It was as if he was drinking from you, the way he lapped greedily at the arousal seeping from your hole. The way he sucked at your clit, gentle pulses that mimicked the beat of your heart.

The angle was surely awkward for him, but he didn’t let up until your hips were quaking and you were openly sobbing hips pressing into his face and pulling away in a rhythm you couldn’t hope to understand. 

He pulled away, pressing wet kisses to the swell of your ass and nipping when you stopped moaning. “Tastes so good. I want more. Feel so close to you, babydoll.”

The sound of a zipper being undone was almost enough to startle you into full consciousness. Almost. Bucky leaned down to press a kiss into the side of your face, cooing when you tried to pull away. “Will never be close enough - have to have more.”

There was the obscene sound of him slicking himself up, then a nudge at your entrance. A whine was pulled from you automatically, but Bucky soothed you with a hand rubbing up and down your back before pressing down at the top, manoeuvring you into a better arch.

The head popped in easily, the movement smooth from your arousal. He pushed forward until his hips were flat against your ass. He was shaking so hard that you could feel it, hands coming to rest at either side of your head. They were shaking, too.

He waited until you were squirming, pinned beneath the bulk of him with nowhere to go. He pulled back, the sound of your slick echoing around the kitchen, before pushing back in hard enough to make you moan. 

“That’s it, baby doll,” he encouraged, leaning forward until he was draped fully over you, like he thought you would run if he didn’t. “I’ve taken good care of you, haven’t I? You can trust me.”He began fucking you in earnest, Depp and hard until you were babbling incoherently. His tongue dipped into your ear, mimicking the way he was fucking you. You were filled by him entirely. 

An unsettling thought wormed its way to the front of your mind. Tics - they were easy to get rid of if you did it early on enough. It was when they’d latched, when they began to suck your life essence from you that it was difficult to get rid of them.

Was that Bucky? Had you let him latch onto you? Tic removal was painful for the host; would it be painful for you after Bucky was gone?

Bucky began a punishing pace that effectively cleared every thought from your mind. His face nuzzled into yours, hot breath puffing against the side of your face. He kept trying to kiss you, growling whenever you turned your face, instead settling for nipping at your jawline as if to remind you he was still there.

Already you dangled on the precipice of orgasm, but when Bucky moved one hand to begin vigorously rubbing your clit, you were sent sprawling over with no warning. 

You shook beneath him, pinned in place by his cock. It felt primal, the way he kept fucking you through your orgasm until you were propelled into another one. Bucky’s hips stuttered and his mouth dropped open as your pussy constricted around his cock, dragging his own orgasm from him. 

“Oh, God,” he murmured, “you’re cumming. Fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

Your mind switched off after that. There was the vague feeling of hands on you, between your legs and gently cleaning you up. Fatigue settled deep into your bones. It was easy to drop off into sleep. Restless, but sleep nonetheless.

📞

When you woke up, it was still dark. You were alone, covered by a blanket that you didn’t recognise. The chill from the tiles had settled into your bones and your teeth chattered as you forced yourself to sit up.

You jumped as your hands brushed across something on the floor - keys. The keys were there. You grabbed them, hugging them to your chest. 

You frowned. The backdoor was still locked - Bucky probably had a set of keys for your house. It didn’t matter. You’d still leave.

The house had too many memories. Good or bad, you couldn’t say. They were too complex to be defined by a single term. 

Your mind was still fuzzy. That was why it took you so long to notice the crumpled piece of paper next to your head.

 _‘I left, like I said I would. I’m not a liar.  
But I can’t stay away’. _\- yours, Bucky

You blinked. Blinked again. A laugh bubbled in your throat and you pressed a hand into your mouth, trying to force it back.

“It’s not over,” you said, reading the lines again and again. “It’s not over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think and come talk to me on Tumblr **kleohoneyao3** 😋


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